


Dreaming Bloody

by Mitochondriak



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-02-01
Packaged: 2021-02-27 12:20:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 8,162
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22387093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitochondriak/pseuds/Mitochondriak
Summary: Season 1 finale doesn't end the way we all remember. Jack being the consummate professional that he is would never have shot to wound. Will is dead. Everyone is an angsty hot mess. Even Hannibal in his way. This won't end well.
Relationships: Bedelia Du Maurier/Hannibal Lecter, Bella Crawford/Jack Crawford, Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter
Comments: 13
Kudos: 39





	1. Prologue: Dreaming Dead

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do not own any of the rights to any of the story or characters of Hannibal TV series, and I'm making no money from this fanfic.

# Prologue

## Dreaming Dead ~*~

1 month later

His step preternaturally light, eyes burnished with the energy of his hunt, he trembled on the verge of a decision. His gun caressed his palm in a keenly electric sensation. Almost lover-like. He sensed the Ravenstag, always a few steps behind, an ever-present, familiar danger. There is no safety in danger; they are antithetical. There is, however, the illusion of safety in the familiar. His feelings were as ever fractured on the matter. He loved and despised the Ravenstag. His soul fear-immobilized and his mind afire, he took no notice of how his thoughts pulsed in tandem with the sway of the antlered beast that ever haunted and goaded him on. 

The chill on the air was evident in the thick cloud that surrounded the Ravenstag's head. It snorted periodically, crystallized warmth permeating the space between them. Perhaps this was why, though the climate screamed with chill, his scant-clad body remained strangely unaffected. He stopped. He wouldn’t turn around. He wouldn’t acknowledge its existence in any way. To do that would be to invite.... to... Yes. To invite. And there must be no invitation. 

From one eye-blink to the next they were hurtled to Baltimore, to the steps of the Monster's lair. This surely being one of his latent insanity-borne dreams, he didn’t question the method or speed of travel. It was immaterial. The link between the man, the Ravenstag, and the Monster was as a bare wire. Taut, seething and sparking with imminent potential of disastrous harm. Up the ice-slick steps, he didn’t knock. The Ravenstag remained below, head lowered, antlers swinging wide, stamping heavily in the snow, making its mark. The hooves left blood, hissing and vibrant, a scorched pool in every print. The man granted no attention to it, his focus driven in on the door before him. He felt the wire coiling about his stone heart, traveling through every sizzling vein, feeding the Ravenstag, whose hooves began to spark, melting the snow in a hiss. The current tripped forward, passing through the door in front of him effortlessly, invisible to any eye, even his own. He knew he was expected. 

An eternity of moments later, the door opened.

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He knew better. The strain between the mind and the heart was fierce. He would not open the door this time. He would breathe a little more deeply and freely, focusing and clearing his uncharacteristically muddled senses. Or he might drink wine to further muddle them. A broad-shouldered shrug tugged at the impeccable line of his charcoal velvet smoking jacket. Either breathing or drinking would be a more sensible choice than the one his body appeared to be making for him. His feet, elegantly and comfortably slipper-clad, made no noise upon the plush carpet, no noise upon the rich timbers of the oak floor beyond. The pull he experienced was familiar and searing and not unwelcome. He ceased to resist, seeming incapable of rational behavior in this moment. He laid a hand that did not tremble upon the door, fingers splayed across its chilled surface. The hand dropped to the knob, caressing it with long, tapered fingers but making no move to turn it. He felt no fear, only wonder at the absurdity of his own presence, once again, at the door. There would be no knock. Never again could there be a knock. Dry, expressionless eyes blinked once.

The mind that hid behind those empty eyes shied from the past, vainly attempting order where there should already be order. His hand pulled back, automatically coaxing his elaborately tailored jacket back into order, then it hung at his side as he retreated.

Again the tug, fiercely insistent. The thin spaces around the door nearly glowed, and his hand raised to his dark and now faintly curious eyes. He rubbed a fingertip across his eyelids, pressing mildly at each one. No change. The glow increased, undeniable now. Curiosity won out, and he stepped back and to one side.

He opened the door.

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	2. Dreaming Awake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I do not own any of the rights to any of the story or characters of Hannibal TV series, and I'm making no money from this fanfic.

# Chapter 1

##  Dreaming Awake ~*~

## 

“Take me to Minnesota. I want to see where Abigail died.”

Head tumbling, stumbling over images of murder after elegantly grotesque murder, committed by someone. Not him. Not him. Not. Semblance of sanity covering his eyes in a veil, Will stared Hannibal down in silently furious demand that this not be the end of him. 

_I know who I am._

__~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~_ _

__Hannibal Lecter, also silent, also full of demand barely held in check, nodded. Good Will hunted, and he would not deny him his prey, though it very well might cost him his own life. He would therefore tread most carefully with this lovely, newborn killer. He followed Will Graham into the former home of the deceased Minnesota Shrike, Garret Jacob Hobbs. Will appeared nearly drunk, though more likely exhausted than inebriated. His skin had a fever sheen to it, and Hannibal knew the encephalitis had a firm hold on Will's mind today. Convenient. It wouldn’t do to have him too lucid, considering the unraveling of Hannibal's schemes of late._ _

__Bedelia. His smile was brief and almost entirely internal, just a tightening around his mouth that few would notice but Will. And Will was too preoccupied. Hannibal was not usually taken by surprise, but his own elegant psychiatrist may have accomplished it. He believed she might be suspecting him at last, though he was uncertain whether she feared or instead appreciated the notion of a killer patient who manipulated and shaped other killer patients. His ego flattered himself she might in fact be jealous. Her sociopathic tendencies he had noted and discarded as merely spectator-level potential for violence almost entirely, with one lurid exception. He doubted she would ever bring herself to that point of abandon again._ _

__Will, on the other hand, was his to mold. At least he told himself this as he followed the shattered and trembling man-shell through the rooms of the beast he put down, an act that brought temporary delight and then endless rounds of contrition and self-loathing. Hannibal could scent the tang of violence on him, underlying the sweetness of the fever. A heady and irresistible mixture, he had the uncharacteristic longing to rub himself against Will like a cat to a scratching post, both marking territory and being marked in return. His face evidenced nothing, as was usual, but his blood rose, as he sensed Will's lust for some sort of violent confrontation. He wondered who would have the honor of becoming Will's target: Will's own despised self, the ghost of a lesser monster, or Hannibal himself.  
They rounded a corner, Hannibal following closely enough to feel the intensity of vibration increasing, as they entered a place where silenced screams still scratched and rent at empty spaces that were once filled with blood and breath and the radiance of a spectacular Becoming. Will appeared to be flung into the past without any effort on his part to consciously bring his imagination to bear. His body crouched, his hand at his waist, caressing his .38 but not drawing it this time. Though the past tickled at his instincts, it did not control them entirely. Hannibal knew he saw the past, knew also that Will realized the past did not see him. There was no immediate threat before him. No need for the gun. Not yet, perhaps, but soon. _ _

__Hannibal once again nearly imperceptibly smiled._ _

__~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~ ~*~_ _

__

__Passing through the living room, a ghost scene flickered: “You be my dad. You be my mom. And you... be the man on the phone.” Will sifted through the young woman's expression, coming up with a new conclusion. He trembled, then recovered. Moved on._ _

__Entering the kitchen, there was a magnificent increase to the tension within Will. He was near ripped in half between the grief he bowed under as he viewed the clear evidence of his daugh- of Abigail's death, and the delight he felt at revisiting what he continued to deny was the scene of his victim's demise. It had until today remained in his conscious mind as a place of only quiet power and justice well-served. His subconscious was now giving him away, and he sat on it hard. His eyes flicked back to Hannibal, who'd entered close behind him but was apparently now giving him space. How... polite. He didn’t miss the remarkably unguarded expression in those gleaming eyes. Nothing polite about that gaze. It mirrored what he was sitting on. As if the back of his mind had been planted not in the front of his mind but within a man he was suddenly sure he didn’t know at all._ _

__His gun hand quivered sharply, fingers screaming to be clenched. He’d made a choice, and instinct was attempting to take him over completely. His subconscious was telling him something else, loudly. He didn’t dare glance Hannibal's way now. He realized suddenly a predator's need for an advantage. He suspected Hannibal believed his reaction was solely due to past horror. It no longer was, as the horror may have followed him from the past, all the way through every played-out moment in between, to this harsh crystallization of reality. The real horror now was that he had never guessed what he was trained to guess. So deeply, pathetically lonely that he shut his empathy off for the sake of what he mistook for a friend._ _

__Hannibal was saying something. Had said several somethings. And apparently he'd responded lucidly enough. Thought wreckage floated around his head, not inside it, as he dissected Abigail's death from the ragged stripes of blood flung liberally throughout the kitchen. Yes, she had to have died here. Enough blood to account for it. His vague, until now unrecognized, hope for her survival burned out in the heat of a surfacing and certain realization. He did not kill her._ _

__“I know who I am.” Will's head slowly rose and turned toward the Monster he now saw clearly through the red mist of fever. “I'm not so sure that I know who you are anymore.” He watched Hannibal take in this indirect accusation with a gaze that no longer attempted to conceal emotions that no psychopath should be capable of feeling._ _

_Then what kind of crazy is he?_

A specter of Jack Crawford's words rang around the room, joining the fragments of deceit and paranoia he struggled to make sense of. What kind of crazy indeed. “But I am certain one of us killed Abigail.” He barely noted a response from the mouth that his eyes couldn’t leave. The mouth that spoke in the past words of comfort, reassurance, sense and sanity to his chaotic mind and heart. Time after time brought him back to himself. The mouth of a cannibal. He raised dry eyes and his weapon, leveled it with an effort, and brought it to bear upon his friend. 

____“Are you a killer, Will?”_ _ _ _

____“I am who I have always been. The scales have just fallen from my eyes. I can see you now.” Will hissed through a tight jaw, his steps taking him in an even tighter circle around Hannibal, putting his back to the corner of the kitchen. He felt a moment of familiarity, a tense wondering, then he hit on it. This was where Garret Jacob Hobbs stood when he was gunned down by a stranger who knew him better than his own family did. And now he did _see_. Oh, he understood. ____

____

____

____

____

____“What do you see?”_ _ _ _

____“You called here that morning. Abigail knew. You kept her secrets until... until.. what? Until she found out some of yours?”_ _ _ _

____His mind tore apart, a burden of grief tainted by a new guilt spilling from him as he tried to remain upright and focused enough to keep his gun trained on the killer he still cared for. Like every other killer before, one he understood. And unlike every killer before, one who understood him._ _ _ _

____He no longer heard his own words, though he knew he spoke. He heard her calling to him, crying, begging to be saved from the death he brought on her by caring so much for her murderer that he didn't see him for what he was in time to save her._ _ _ _

____“Wind him up and watch him go.” His voice was no louder than the voices in his head. All of them, not just Abigail. Marissa Shure's. Yes, and Donald Sutcliffe's. All the victims he could have saved. Should have. Blind. So …. He mentally pummeled himself with the word. Blind. _Blind_. Not anymore. His gun hand steadied, as his vision cleared fully at last. His voice flared out with a mixture of fury and regret. The fury he understood. The regret was harder to acknowledge. “Well apparently, Dr. Lecter, this is how I go.” The gun didn’t waver, even as his heart did, for a moment. And then stuttered altogether to a stop as a familiar voice assailed him with a calm surety of purpose all its own: _ _ _ _

“Will, _easy_...” Jack Crawford lifts a hand, equal parts commanding and pleading, toward Will. Jack. No, he wasn’t truly here. Just more ghosts. Will extended only a bare peripheral awareness, as his gaze moved not a fraction from Hannibal's gleaming eyes. Eyes that didn’t beg for his own life. Eyes that had no fear, but what appeared to be a confounding exultation. What could thrill him so much, give him so much joy in his own impending death? Why didn’t he beg Will for his life? 

________A shock like silent thunderclap followed the questions swiftly, as Will answered his own questions: Hannibal's final victory would be to make Will kill not out of some sense of righteous duty but from pleasure alone. And as this knowledge seated itself inside his belly, it ignited that pleasure, overpowering the righteous rage, making it seem a sideshow. The kill was the thing. What he wanted. Needed. He tensed. Arms swiveled up and out. Finger twitched, and a gun fired._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________Not his gun._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

________He fell, his whole body twitching now, his fingers loosening their grasp on the weapon he still held undischarged. Oh yes.... _He could See...._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

__________And then he saw nothing._ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _ _

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	3. Dreaming Void

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I don't own the Hannibal TV series story or any of the characters written by Thomas Harris. I'm making no money from writing and posting this fan fiction. Which means I should probably also be writing something I can get paid for. But this is too much fun!

# Chapter 2

##    


## Dreaming Void ~*~

## 

Something. Sensation, a hint of something light but flattened out, pressed together and seamless in a void he didn’t taste or hear but could follow like a ribbon that moved and bunched together then stretched out forever. A strand that flickered and sparked occasionally but mostly just took up nonexistent space and drew him along with it. He followed, though his senses told him nothing of space or time, just being. And then he was there, back in the kitchen. But the view was wrong. He would take a breath, but that would have required lungs, and he didn’t appear to have those. How did he not have lungs? He'd gasp in horror but again.... lungs required.

A body huddled in the corner of the kitchen drew his gaze immediately. Garrett Jacob Hobbs leered at him from the doorway, watching in some amusement, as Will realized the body that has his confused attention wasn’t Hobbs. The sweat-drenched curls. Hobbs was balding. A watch gleamed dully off a limp wrist. He knew that watch. Again, the urge to scream was stifled by a complete lack of breathing taking place. He tapped his chest, lightly and then harder, willing it to rise, while knowing he was working over the wrong form. His corporeal self was just as still, crumpled half over itself, with no perceptible rise and fall of respiration. There was just a faint trickle of blood seeping away from it, slowing, and as he watched, stilling completely. 

He had no memory of rising, but on his feet he was, and his attention left his own deceased carcass in a numb curiosity, now taking notice of the man crouched near to the left side. No, not man. Monster. He could see the antlers clearly now, the flat gaze of the Wendigo, as it stretched out a hand to grasp at Will's... the body's.... wrist. Felt for a pulse. Held on longer, far longer than necessary to determine a life departed. A surreptitious stroking of a single finger down the center of the still-warm palm. And then a slight shudder ran down the broad back, as he fell backwards, person suit sliding seamlessly into place, wendigo once more submerged. Hannibal hunched over with his arms crossed over his face. He rocked lightly back and forth, hiding what Will was certain must be an expressionless and certainly tear-free visage. Perhaps he concealed joy in his continued existence when just moments before he joyfully faced a different fate. Perhaps he laughed at Will's poor luck and his good fortune. His shoulders were shaking. It would not be tears for his 'friend'. 

Jack Crawford had no need to disguise his true emotions. They were, Will noticed with near dispassion, a fine and rousing chorus of guilt and anxiety and stark grief. So the man had cared for him more than as a tool of his trade. Maybe. He had also wept over that former trainee of his. One could feel so much for one's tools? Perhaps it was all that lost life the world would experience, now that Will could no longer aid in their saving 

( _oh dear god that I don't believe in I think I'm dead_ ). 

Yes, that would be something he could imagine Jack mourning. He did an experimental tap on Jack's shoulder, just to see if his finger would pass right through. No, it connected, but not like in life

( _deadamIreallydead_ ). 

It was spongier somehow. And Jack didn’t appear to sense it. He grasped the mighty, trembling, bowed shoulder with his whole palm and squeezed. Jack didn't look up, but the weeping hiccupped a bit before resuming. 

He was behind Hannibal now, without a motion, without even thought to precede motion. A small object was half-hidden by the lip of a bottom cupboard, still cold. Unused. His revolver. He placed his hand over it, and it disappeared from the floor. It knew its owner apparently. He inserted the gun into the back of his pants. A passing wonder slipped through his thoughts regarding the whereabouts of his holster. He could see the dull metal of the buckle on the body. He looked down at himself. No holster. He looked at his wrist. No watch. His feet were bare of the hiking shoes, the socks he knew he wore to this _casa della morte,_ as he imagined Hannibal to have pretentiously titled the home of his patient's Becoming. 

He fell into the most intense emotion he'd experienced since his departure from life. Of course sarcasm would return first. Derision. Amusement at the expense of another. These he was most fluent in and would latch onto with familiarity. Did he ever experience softer emotions? Or did he only mimic those he was presented with by those who had the misfortune to care for him? 

His mind nearly disappeared down this philosophical thought trail but was recovered by the tinkle of glass as it shattered in another room. Snapping back to the dismal present, he witnessed the arrival of yet another clumsily mourning figure, female this time. Clad professionally as always but with a complete lack of professional distance, Beverly Katz grasped a nearby countertop to keep her upright. Her face was anything but stoic. She didn’t weep, and Will expected this. But her eyes were brighter than usual, and her face was in patches of flush and pale. Her hand oozed blood from a shallow gash on her palm. The blood smeared on the countertop, and she swore with quiet acid and fire. This also was no surprise to Will. He recalled the time she witnessed his own contamination of a crime scene. She would give herself no more leniency than she gave him. Her rigid principles and meticulous following of protocol would never allow her a wriggle off her own hook. He hoped she wouldn’t dangle long. She was, of anyone, what he imagined a friend could be like, were he capable of such easy and amicable relation.

She remained where she was, still bleeding on the countertop but making no move to further decorate the crime scene. “Jack,” she hoarsely whispered. “Jack, tell me what happened.” And then voices cut off any reply the still shaking man might have made, as Price and Zeller made their entrance, drama free. One look at Jack’s wrecked posture, and they were herding their coworker off under subtle protest, wrapping her hand up in a makeshift bandage while they swiftly exited. Their footsteps quieted, and the front door creaked then banged. 

Jack sighed his relief, and Will could imagine how little he felt like answering any questions. Hannibal unwound fluidly from his pseudo-grief pose and rose slowly to his feet. He leaned over, offering a steady hand to Jack. The still-bent-over man flinched away from the perceived kindness. His gaze had not once left the man flopped raggedy doll-like in the corner. Like someone had tossed him there unwanted. 

_Not again. So careless. … waste. My fault._

Will could finally hear the thoughts he could only sense and guess at before. Jack's chest crumpled in on itself in a sob that wouldn’t quite stifle. 

_Will... Oh Will, I killed you long before I pulled that trigger._

**_About damn time you recognize._**

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	4. Dreaming Aside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I own no rights to the Hannibal TV series or anything Hannibal by Thomas Harris, or any of the characters, no matter how awesome. None of it is mine. I make no money from this fanfiction. I pay myself in elevated self esteem. You pay me with kudos. Thank you!

# Chapter 3

## Dreaming Aside ~*~

2 months later

It took a moment of processing before Hannibal could see his therapist had outed him once again. Only this time, she had taken advantage of his grief and exposed the one vulnerability he could wish to be rid of. 

“Do you mourn for a friend or a patient…. “ Gaze was deliberately steady as she gracefully pounced, “… or for a victim?”

He sighed inwardly and refused to cede the point. She would have to try much harder to pin her prey. Odd, he'd never considered himself to be her prey until recently. He had been certain the other way round was more accurate. Indeed it appeared more likely to him every day that the stalking was mutual. Two cats hissing and arching and clawing at each other without ever giving outward sign of the struggle between them. He liked the imagery, so he casually painted in an ornate tarnished brass cage to house their battle. No roar of crowd to cheer them on. No payment to be taken as reward for the victor. The only prize would be freedom from the cage in which they both have trapped the other. Neither was trustworthy. Neither was inclined to bring the law down upon the other's head for fear of bringing about their own decapitation. 

He wondered what trap Will would have attempted to spring upon him, had he not been brought down to death first. His lips tightened. And of course, she noticed. 

“Will Graham binds you even after his death, and you see no escape. Perhaps you wish no escape?” A shifting of her weight from one hip to the other betrayed something in her questioning. A subtle interest beyond the professional. He scented something new in the air between them. “What do you gain from this continued obsession?” 

Everything. He acknowledged this easily to himself and not at all to Ms. Du Maurier, whose curiosity would certainly not be satisfied by him. He stood and moved to the flawlessly draped floor-to-ceiling window nearby. His hands did not betray him. Nothing betrayed him. His budding insanity remained hidden where she could never pry it from him. Hidden in his mind palace, behind exactly seven doors and keyed to the tune of the Tennessee Waltz. He didn’t ever examine his choice there. It was as incomprehensible as his own existence. He simply was and will continue to be. Without Will. 

The window frosted over. Sudden and creeping and thorough, from the outer edges spiraling inward. He closed his eyes. Opened them. The frost remained, smoking and curling silently into the atmosphere without and within, trailing over the carpet, grasping lightly at the tips of his shoes. He turned and made his way back to his chair. Crossed his legs. And shivered. She noticed. 

“Hannibal. He’s gone.”

He smiled. 

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	5. Dreaming Dinner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I own no rights to Hannibal TV series or anything Hannibal by Thomas Harris, or any of the characters. Or anything. I don't even own my own home. But I digress. I make no money from this fanfiction. So I will probably never own my own home.

# Chapter 4

## Dreaming Dinner ~*~

1 month later

The door opened. The Monster waited, faint surprise cast across his stone face. Features Will would twist to his own design. The gun flexed in his palm. He obliged, laying it against that bladed cheekbone and pulling the trigger uselessly, knowing it wouldn’t fire. Why could he touch the Monster but the gun couldn’t? His trigger finger uncurled and inadvertently brushed Hannibal’s cheek. 

Furious, he yanked the weapon away and entered the foyer. Hannibal remained at the doorway for a moment longer, his quiet gaze falling across and then through the Ravenstag, who remained on some sort of statuesque guard down there in the cold and dark. Snow was slipping down now, sliding across the world in a dizzying breath. Will preferred the protection of the Lair. Apparently so did Hannibal, who retreated, closing the door so gently it made no sound. 

He followed the Monster with a hollowed-out grin, Seeing. Seeing him cross the foyer and travel down the hallway to the kitchen. Seeing him pull a drawer open. Seeing the light flare down the perfectly honed blade’s edge. Always Seeing now. But never able to act. Frustration sheeted over him as he flexed empty hands around a neck that couldn’t recognize the threat. He could feel the pulse of life beneath fingers that grappled and attempted to rend without leaving so much as a traceable print. The Monster tensed, the knife wavering, bobbing, as he turned softly about and stared right through a charged space. 

“Will.” Almost a grunt, more a whisper. 

Will would flinch if he had any fear left in him. He was beyond surprises now. Startle reflex forever silenced. But it was strange to have a knife seated solidly through the level of his chest and feel nothing but ever-present rage. Retreating from the now steadied blade, he found a bar stool and grabbed the back in a hug to his chest, wrapping his ankles through the metal legs. His chin rested on the backsplat. He Saw.

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If Hannibal believed in ghosts, he would hope for Mischa to pay him a call. The blade lowered. It was not Mischa. 

It was not Will.

He slipped the butcher blade onto the nearby countertop next to the sink and tossed a look toward the doorway. And then he breathed. Deep and generously sucking life through his being. He exited the kitchen the way he came and wandered deliberately to the drawing room. Stopping by the liquor cabinet, he chose a tumbler. No wine tonight. A brandy could warm his fingers, fingers he raises to his cheek now. Trembling fingers. Dropping his hand again to grasp the bottle, he uncapped and upended its glittering shape to drench his glass from the inside. Replaced the bottle. Raised the glass and sipped. _A toast to the ghost_ , he thought humorlessly. The hairs on his neck raised, he shrugged off his jacket and laid it across the armrest of the couch. He sat and drank in the familiarity of this warmly lit room. Crossing his legs, he finished the brandy, warmly lighting his insides to match the outside.

The empty glass sat alone now on the side table. That wouldn’t do. Rising unhurried and at ease, he retrieved a second glass and placed it near the other. He exited the room.

In the kitchen again, he retrieved the knife and a bunch of garlic. Precisely he peeled and chopped. Meat of a variety not approved by the FDA was removed from its succulent marinade and tossed with a bunch of sage, the spice puffing up around his fingers. Salt crackled through his fingers, bouncing across the deep shimmer of the loin. Tellicherry pepper fresh ground followed, massaged into every crevice. Turning to retrieve a pan, he lit the stove and stroked the lump of person idly before dropping it onto the chopping block. Butter sailed with a popping caress of the pan’s heavy surface. The meat soon followed, dredged in a fine dust of flour. His nostrils opened wide, and the pleasing aroma joined the brandy in his senses, shaping his mood to a far more placid one. 

After thoroughly scouring his hands at the sink, he turned to find a towel just settling across the counter nearest him. His wet hands fell, dripping unheeded on the floor. He waited. The towel didn’t stir. The loin popped cheerfully. Hannibal didn’t flinch. He never did. 

A sauce shaping up now and simmering, he prepared a light arugula salad with marionberries and goat cheese crumbles. Some bitter with some sweet. Life condensed into a wooden bowl. He will play his Theremin tonight. Unstructured and wild and curling about him like the memory of a glance flickering down out of his reach. 

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	6. Dreaming Regret

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I own no rights to Hannibal in any form, TV series, movies, books, none of the story, none of the characters. I am making no money from this fanfiction.

# Chapter 5

## Dreaming Regret ~*~

1 day later

His phone chirped. Ignored. He already knew it was Agent Beverly Katz. No part of him needed bad news. Or company. Drown their sorrows together? Professional. His Bella hadn't been privy to this wallow either. Jack flexed his fingers, glancing down at his knuckles as they let him know just how hard he had intimidated the bedroom wall. He’d always been good at that, intimidation. Will was damn well intimidated. Intimidated right into crazy that Jack had barreled right past on his way to the glory of more lives saved. Heroic.

He smeared blood on his pants leg as he rose from the bed.

_‘Chirp_.’ He turned away from the reminder of responsibilities.

The bathroom door was gaping, the light furling out into the darkened room. Grabbing his whiskey with an abrupt slosh, he tripped across the room with oxlike charm and grace. His feet worked better yesterday. Everything worked better. His feet, his lightning reflexes, his gun hand. Worked beautifully. Everything worked but his judgment. That was fucked. 

He tasted cherry flavored dirty socks, his own personal hallmark of cheap whiskey. Turning on the bathroom faucet, he sloshed up a face washing and took a swirling sip. He should brush his teeth. He clacked his tongue against the fuzzy roof of his mouth. Poking into a small drawer, he opted for a cough drop instead of a toothbrush. A brief piss stop, then he exited. And reentered. Washed his hands. Bella would be proud. He was glad his wife didn’t stay. She tried. He was intimidating. She’d return from the hospital poked and prodded and with no more hope of surviving her cancer than before. He hadn’t told her about Will. 

His phone chirped. He pocketed it unexamined and left the bathroom. Left the bedroom. Left the house. Left his sanity parked somewhere far behind him as he took a left down the street. 

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Beverly Katz, poking at her phone keypad with tongue gripped between whitened lips and a clipboard tucked under her arm, had a case of cry eye. Facts weren’t working for her today, and neither was her tact, as she’d just sent a blistering text to her absentee boss. Hoping to get fired was a pretty strong motive. Wanting to ditch and run, like Jack appeared to have done, privileged bastard, had a pretty tight grip on her. Rigid discipline got her to work, but work was having no luck keeping her interested. Will was everywhere. She wasn’t a patsy for the paranormal, but that aftershave of his was unmistakable. One of the trainees, maybe. Nobody else had the gall to wear that abominable stench to work. Who knew that grief could make you smell things? She’d heard of phantom limbs, but phantom aftershave was just appalling. 

The FBI Crime Scene Investigator pulled her phone closed with a snap and yanked out the clipboard. Rifled through the first couple of pages. Said here he had his .38 on Hannibal. She scowled and rubbed her clenched forehead with a clenched fist. What kinda sense that made she couldn’t say. 

_Interpret the evidence_. 

Her hair was well-groomed as ever, her clothing smart, her teeth brushed, and her mind completely disordered. _Can’t concentrate_. Will would have known why. He’d have done the brilliant thing, caught the bad guy, saved all the lives. Except that if everything in his house was telling her what she was terrified it had to be, Will had no righteous reason to draw down on Hannibal. And maybe one or two unrighteous reasons. 

Hannibal. 

He entered the room, speak of the smooth devil. She didn’t smile. She hoped he didn’t need anything much. She had to figure out how Will could be the serial killer they had all been hot after. 

“Beverly.” He slid his briefcase up against the wall near a lab supply cupboard and straightened. She didn’t look up from her clipboard. Sheets of paper crinkled and slid as she thumbed through the report from yesterday. “I’m here at Jack’s request. He called me in to help you.” 

She snorted. _Help huh? Where was your ability to help yesterday when Will needed him to be strong for him, to save him from himself?_ None of this was useful. She remained silent. He might just go if she didn’t acknowledge. 

No such luck. He took a nearby stool and calmly watched her. The subtle beep of her watch reminded her it was time to call for results on blood analysis. More poking at her phone, this time with better results. Maybe because she was more polite this time. She didn’t say much on her end, and her face went pale. She’d have pulled up a stool, but Hannibal already had dibs. He was still watching her. She snapped her phone closed once more and then wrapped her arms around herself in an attempt to hold things steady and inside. Things like her lunch. Her nose flared. So did Hannibal’s. 

_Huh. Guess it must be a trainee hiding somewhere around a corner. No phantom smell, that. Why the fuck was Hannibal smiling?_

“Mind giving me my stool back?” She headed over, ready to move him forcibly if he didn’t play the gentleman and let her get off legs that wanted to abdicate their shared responsibilities of keeping her up off the floor.

“Of course. Beverly, what is it?” A slight nod toward the phone she was barely holding in a hand that had lost circulation or some such bullshit. Anyway, she couldn’t feel it. _Well, that sounds like shock to me_ , she nodded to herself. 

“That blood in the kitchen…. “ She hoped he understood what kitchen, because she couldn’t seem to force any identifying words out. _None of this is real_. “It was hers.”

“Abigail’s?” 

“Yes.”

She sat and stared back at Hannibal. He blinked. And walked out of the room. 

_Huh_.

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	7. Dreaming Dinner, Second Course

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I own no rights to Hannibal the TV series, or the movies or the books, or any of the characters. I make not one penny off this fanfiction.

# Chapter 6 

## Dreaming Dinner, Second Course ~*~

1 month later

Will had no compunction about tormenting a serial killer for entertainment, although revenge was undoubtedly his primary and most compelling motive. With nothing apparent to do now but be dead, and being no other earthly use to anyone, he needed a purpose in this nonlife. Now and then he gave thought to tormenting Jack _fucking_ Crawford. Jack, who’d used him up and then put him down. At least Alana was exhibiting some honest grief. In memorium, she’d taken on not just one or two of his dogs, but the whole teeming pack. Recently she’d added to the lot. Applesauce. An inspired name if ever he heard one. 

Jack might have deserved some torment, but Will didn’t have the stomach for it. Not while Bella regressed with every doctor appointment. And Alana remained untarnished in Will’s mind. The only innocent party. Fitting she’d aligned herself with his dogs. He sometimes remembered what it was like to ache for her. All softer emotions were long burnt up in him, fuel for his rage, and he didn’t miss them, inconveniences that they were. They kept you blind. Got you killed. Got him killed. 

Death was really convenient in one regard. Travel time was not a factor. Blink, you’re here. Blink, you’re somewhere else. And if he concentrated extra carefully, he could nearly split himself and be two places at once. But only nearly. Attempting it had caused some sort of schism in his awareness that took a blink or two to rectify, and it was uncomfortable enough not to try again. It appeared that at least where Will was concerned, the laws of physics were only bent, not outright smashed to pieces.

He lifted his curly head from its perch on the back of the stool to take in the Monster’s kitchen, all sparkling and free of contamination. Pure. 

Pure until he considered what lay in Hannibal’s larder. 

Speaking of Hannibal, where was he off to? 

Unwinding himself from the kitchen stool, Will dogged the steps of the Monster, nonexistent breath down his neck, wishing he had a way to make his presence more forcibly known. Interacting with objects didn’t appear to work by the same method as interacting with life forms. He could often make his presence felt by actual physical contact with a person, or even a dog. Oh, especially dogs. Winston was a regular on his rounds, as were the others of his… no, Alana’s pack. But trying to influence an object was a different trick altogether and one he had yet to completely suss out. His gun was so far the lone exception. It had come to him like any of his dogs would have come to his call. His, without question. Too bad that so far it was useless to him. It hung at his side in his hand, as pointless as his own continued existence.

He wished with the fervor of the damned that he could let Beverly know he was still hanging over her shoulder, watching every particle of evidence as it was brought in and processed. She had taken obsessive charge of the investigation, shoving Price and Zeller off board and leaving them in a heavy wake. She hadn’t made any wrong turns yet, but she hadn’t made that critical right turn yet either. Will mentally screamed Hannibal’s name in her ear often enough, he continued to be surprised her eardrum remained undamaged. 

Propping himself up against the doorway to the drawing room, he found some amusement in the thought of perhaps having driven Hannibal to drink. Should he flatter himself? He’d never ‘til now seen the man opt for the hard stuff. _Next thing you know he’ll be chugging cheap whiskey from the bottle._

Will focused in, trying to glean the thoughts off the surface of Hannibal’s mind. He could do this so readily with anyone else. Easier when there’s a heightened emotional state, but not impossible otherwise. Even the smooth and mostly unflappable Alana had become a bit of an embarrassing open book. Flattering, some of the thoughts about his physique, and her memory of briefly shared kisses gave him no doubt it was a mutual attraction, but ultimately her take on him was no different than what she’d already as good as spoken aloud to him: Broken. Pitiable. Good to know she hadn’t been lying.

Jack’s thoughts of late were mostly a continuous babbling spiral of malignant guilt over him and the ashes of grief over Bella. Will didn’t tune in often. 

Hannibal, though. Oh, what fortune would he hand over to be given just a peek. But that mind was as blank to him as his face had ever been. Monstrous mental control. Perhaps you had to have a fragment of humanity within, in order to have potential for mental connection? 

Hannibal was visibly troubled now, though. His hand had the barest of tremor as he poured, and he drank in full swallows from the sparkling crystal tumbler instead of his characteristic savoring sips. Looks like that moment in the kitchen had cracked his calm. Hearing him speak Will’s name out loud had been almost as unnerving for him as it had to have been for Hannibal to utter it. Was Will breaking through at last? Did the Monster sense the Hunter was near? 

Will instinctively backed off the doorway, shoving out of the way, as Hannibal strode past, breath scattering puffs of brandy behind him. He’s never going to be comfortable with people walking right through him. Will took one more glance around the room, remembering moments shared in ignorant unknowing, taking each step with Hannibal guiding him to his own personal Hell. 

His brief glance took in a pair of tumblers. Not just one. Butted right up next to each other, how cozy. How like old times. How he yearned to smash them with his bare hands, dripping blood cascading down to his elbows, before coating Hannibal’s corpse in the scintillating, blood-gorged shards. Then toss him off the nearest cliff.

Ghosts don’t bleed, though.

He could smell more than just leftover brandy fumes now. Apparently he’d taken so long fantasizing murder that he’d missed the first dance of the set. He slunk down the hallway, irrational paranoia convincing him he wasn’t quite as invisible as he was before. Hannibal knew on some level. That second glass, it struck him as more than just a memorial. It was more like an acknowledgment. Even a greeting. 

The kitchen had a warmth unsuited to the ungodly that inhabited it. A cheerfulness in spite of the stark cleanliness. The stove’s flame caressed softly the edges of a pan containing the unthinkable. Will didn’t want to ache, but it came upon him unawares. Not a soft ache. A shredding grasping gnawing suffocating aloneness. 

Oh yes. That’s how he used to feel. Claiming a neutral distance blunted the edge of the resurrected emotion and then vanished it like a magician’s act. Clambering up into its place was his familiar companion: Rage. It clawed its way back into his middle and then up through his throat. He could feel the scream. It vibrated at a pitch perfectly suited to melt flesh off the bone. 

Hannibal continued to move about the kitchen easily, unencumbered by the wraithly fury, which only increased Will’s determination to make some impact. The vibrations increased, and then, finally, Will felt a ripple slide through air invisible, sifting atoms and tossing them aside. It caught at the edge of a tea towel, flipping it about suddenly and wafting it in a skip across the counter, where it landed in a soft curl near the sink where Hannibal was just washing up. 

Will would be holding his breath if he possessed such a thing. 

Nothing. 

Well, ok, he at least looked at the damn towel. And then went right back to his business. Humming. Hannibal was humming. A soft tilt of a smile, lips creasing inward in satisfaction. 

Will gave up the ghost. In a manner of speaking.

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	8. Dreaming Recluse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I own no rights to the Hannibal TV series, any of the movies, or any of the books by Thomas Harris. None of these awesome characters belong to me. I make no money from this fan fiction.

# Chapter 7

## Dreaming Recluse ~*~

3 weeks later

She picked up a trailing leash before one exceptionally bouncy dog could make a break for the nearby freedom of the field bordering her home. The sun had barely arisen and was splashed glittering through the air. The rest of the dogs had obediently swarmed about her, hoping for pats, for treats, and they wouldn’t be disappointed. She would never disappoint them. Not like she disappointed herself. Not like she disappointed… The thought was captured and disciplined like an errant dog. And like an errant dog, the thought came bouncing out again to surround her with guilt. Applesauce leaned into her high-booted leg, rubbing her jaw against Alana’s hand hopefully. But her mistress stared across the field, remembering.

_“Do you feel unstable?” Will had the look of a trapped animal. He was so adept at saving other creatures but hung himself out to dry in a moment. Unkempt. More than usual. Drained and pale. Alana didn’t know why he elicited more than pity.. But her body tugged her toward him. She resisted. Her lips tingled at the remembrance of a kiss sweeter and more dangerous than any she’d ever allowed herself. She shouldn’t have allowed herself. Shouldn’t have given him hope. Or herself._

_“Yes.”_

_Her body couldn’t keep its distance anymore from him, but with that grudging confession, it was no longer passion that drove her to him, wrapped her arms about him. It wasn’t exactly pity, but it was close. She could smell the fear coming off of him, and something else. She couldn’t place it._

Applesauce gave her a shove in the back of her knee with a hopeful nose. Her knee buckled slightly, bringing her back to an empty present. Well, not empty. Empty of Will. 

Not empty of dogs or guilt.. 

She gave each dog an extra treat in recompense for a debt owed to the dead. 

And then she went to see Beverly. Maybe answers would have come after all these puzzling and discouraging weeks. 

Parking her car outside FBI headquarters, she sat for a moment longer alone, before unbolting her seatbelt with a determination not to head right back out the parking lot and down the street to home and bed and retreat. She’s spent a good bit of leave doing just that, and part of her was still there. If it weren’t for Hannibal’s regular visits, she wouldn’t remember that there were things like mail to be picked up out front. She always took the dogs out back. He’d fielded some of her case load and helped her distribute the rest among their colleagues. She had another week of leave she could take. Another three if she didn’t care about the deadline for a report that she normally would have had processed and submitted at least a week ago. She supposed she cared. Somewhere buried. She shoved her car door closed and didn’t bother to glance at her reflection in the window. She didn’t bother to put on makeup. She barely brushed out her hair. It hung limp around her face. Her customary heels were traded in weeks ago for an old pair of trainers. At least they were laced. 

The parking lot was busy this time of morning, and she weaved around vehicles entering and leaving, trying to keep her balance. Up the stairs and through the front door, she found herself counting each step in her mind. She didn’t realize her lips were mouthing the numbers. 

Passing through security swiftly, she headed straight for the women’s bathroom, retching up breakfast, washing up, everyday occurrence. Breath mint tucked into her left cheek, she breathed too swiftly, had to remind herself to slow the pace. Pulling strands of her now sweat-dampened hair behind her ears, she headed for the lab. 

On the way, she kept her head straight forward, nodding when she’s expected to nod, rigid smile in place. Everything normal here. _Don’t notice me._ If there were any concerned glances, she missed them. She stepped into the bright fluorescence of the lab. 

Memories crashed in shards of broken clarity through her mind. _Will to the side, gesticulating wildly at a still corpse. Everyone crowded around, theorizing. Price and Zeller scowling at Will. Beverly elbows deep in the chest cavity. Will._ Her breath quickened again. She stepped closer. 

“Alana?” 

Beverly came out of the rear office, snapping on gloves as she went. Alana blinked hard, wiping residue of a Beverly who was on the opposite side of the lab from her sight. She found a stool nearby and neatly tipped onto it, sparing herself the humiliation of a tumble onto the floor. Her legs splayed to each side, she clung to the edge of the nearby counter, swinging herself around to face Bev head on. 

“Any news?” No formalities. No niceties. No social etiquette. No proper form and shape to discourse. Just a blunt, desperate plea. 

“Nothing you’ll want to hear. Nothing I wanted to know.” Bev shot her gloves back off and straight into the disposal. “You look like …” She snapped her mouth closed over what she might have said, as Alana glares. “Yeah, ok. You already know. So. Will’s fly-fishing equipment had a few unexpected surprise additions. A bone here, a hair there, a tooth…” She stopped as Alana held up her hand, begging the words to stop. To reverse. To stuff themselves right back in Bev’s mouth to be swallowed whole and digested, shat out and flushed far away. 

Well, she had wanted news. 

“Where are Price and Zeller? Are they on this? Do they know?” They never did have a high opinion of Will. She can only imagine their gossip. 

“Yeah, they know. They won’t say anything until we’re ready for an announcement. Alana,” She swallows thick and dry. “Alana, one of the remains was from Abigail Hobbs... “ 

And that was that. 

She drove home. 

Fed and watered the dogs. 

Climbed back into bed fully dressed. 

She didn’t cry. 

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**Author's Note:**

> I've been holding onto this for a few years now, not really having been sure I'd work on it again. I've written halfway through chapter 5 so far and will hopefully post regularly as I crank out more. I welcome comments and criticisms. Enjoy!


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